The carpet washer

All Joyce wants to do is make a cup to tea for the workman. But something about them is troubling her. They are not all they appear to be...

The carpet washer

 

     “I don’t think I did ask you to come and clean the carpets, dear,” said Joyce.

 

   Charlie sighed and stamped his feet in the cold.  The smell of boiled cabbage and old gravy hit him in the face as Joyce shifted herself in the doorway.  Greg, his business partner, turned round and looked at the quiet, suburban road. 

 

   “You called this morning and asked me to come over,” said Charlie, showing Joyce the heavy canister that held the soap and water.  “What do you want me to do with this, then?”

 

   Joyce hugged herself in the cold and peered suspiciously at the equipment.  A kettle rumbled noisily in the kitchen as the water boiled. 

 

   “Kettle’s boiled,” he said, as the ‘off’ switch clicked.  “How about a nice cup of tea, eh?  It’s freezing out here…”

 

   She waved them in with a swift motion before Charlie had finished speaking.  She turned around and walked with quick, short steps along the hallway and into the kitchen.

 

   Greg turned to face Charlie with a grin on his face.

 

   “Just…”  Charlie scratched his head.  “Just bring the rest of the stuff in.”

 

   Greg skipped back to the van, parked a little up the road from Joyce’s flat, and opened the doors noisily.

 

   “How do you like your tea, dear?”  Joyce shouted.

 

   “White, no sugar.” 

 

   Charlie wandered into the small living room which sat just off the hallway next to the only bedroom.  The room was furnished with a single armchair, a coffee table with cream, ceramic tiles on top, a near empty bookshelf and an old television.  Charlie put the machinery down in the corner of the room, next to the television, and picked up the coffee table.

 

   “Where are you taking that, dear?”  Asked Joyce appearing in the doorway.  She was holding an empty teapot in her hand.

 

   “I need to clear out the room.  Can I put it in your bedroom?”

 

   “I don’t think that would be a good idea.  I don’t like the thought of you going into my bedroom.”

 

   “But…”

 

   “Can’t you just put it out on the pavement?”

 

   Charlie glared at Joyce and put the coffee table back on the floor.

 

   “It would make my life easier if I could move it into the bedroom.  You’ve got steps up to the front door and…”

 

   “I really would prefer it if you could move it onto the pavement.”

 

   Charlie looked like he was about to say something but changed his mind at the last moment.

 

   “No problem,” he said.

 

   Joyce smiled, nodded approvingly, and walked back out of the room swinging her teapot.

 

   Charlie struggled out of the flat with the coffee table and down three narrow steps.  He nearly walked into a young mother and her pushchair as he backed out of the gate.

 

   “Sorry,” he said, placing the coffee table heavily onto the pavement.  The young mother ignored him and continued walking.

 

   “What are you doing with that?”  Asked Greg, holding some tubing and a bucket.

 

   “She doesn’t want me to put it her bedroom so I’ve brought it out here.”

 

   “You’re not going to make me bring all the other stuff out here, are you?”

 

   “No,” said Charlie, trying to unstiffen his back.  “Just shove everything to one end of the room, clean, and shove it all back.  Do what we normally do on cheap jobs.”

 

   Greg shrugged and said, “You’re the boss.”

 

   Charlie looked up at the front of the block of flats as Greg walked through the front door.  It was clean and well maintained.  All the windows looked sparkling and the pointing looked like it had been redone.  He nodded to himself and went back inside.

 

   “You’re Angela’s boy, aren’t you?”  Joyce asked Charlie.  She was wiping the teapot with a Scottie-Dogs-are-Precious tea towel.  Greg carried the television to the other side of the room and set it down next to the armchair. 

 

   “No,” said Charlie, absently.

 

   “Really?  You look like Angela’s boy.  You have the same shaped face as her dad.  Funny.  What are you doing with that?”  She asked, pointing at a magazine rack.  Inside was a cheese grater lying next to a copy of Take A Break magazine.

 

   “Just putting it next to the TV,” answered Greg.

 

   “I see.”

  

   Joyce glared at the two men as they cleared the side of the room nearest the window.

  

   “It’s a funny job you do,” said Joyce.  “Do you enjoy it?”

 

   Charlie shrugged.  “The business will always be in demand.  A clean carpet will eventually get dirty again.  So I’ll always get called in to clean it – over and over again until it’s faded and the patterns have vanished.  But I’ll always be there to clean the dirty carpet.”

 

   Joyce nodded to herself.  “Lovely,” she said.  “Right then – who would like a cup of tea?”

 

   Both men held their hands up in acknowledgment.  Joyce squinted at Charlie.

 

   “You’re not Dean and Daff’s son are you?”

 

   “No,” replied Charlie.  Greg wandered out of the room with a grin on his face.

 

   “Oh.  What about Maisy?”

 

   “No.”

 

   “James and Doreen?”

 

   Charlie sighed deeply and shook his head.  Joyce peered over her glasses at Charlie, her top teeth jutting out over her bottom lip in concentration.  All the while she rubbed the teapot absently with the tea towel.

 

   “I know you from somewhere, I swear I do,” she said, finally, walking out of the living room and back into the kitchen.

 

   Charlie sighed deeply and went back to moving the furniture.  Once half the room was clear he wandered over to the fireplace and looked at the items on the mantelpiece.  Next to a gold carriage clock was a silver frame with an old black and white wedding photo inside.  A woman who looked vaguely like she may have been Joyce at a young age smiled out of the picture with a look of innocence and excitement.  She wore a billowing wedding dress and was holding tightly onto a smart looking groom, also bearing the look of youthful naivety.  Charlie reached out and touched the frame.

 

   “That’s everything,” Greg announced as he brought the last of the equipment into the hallway.  Charlie drew his hand back quickly and turned around.

  

   “Has she made the tea yet?”  Asked Greg.

 

   “No, SHE, hasn’t,” said Joyce jostling Greg as she pushed into the living room.  She was now wearing a pinny with a picture of a loaf of bread on the front.  “Are you any relation to Doris Mabbutt?”

 

   Charlie shook his head slowly.

 

   “Hmm.”  Joyce left the room again throwing a sniping glance at Greg.

 

   Greg dropped to his knees and attached some tubing to the main body of the carpet cleaner.  He looked up at Charlie and raised an eyebrow.

 

   Charlie was frowning.  “Just don’t, ok,” he said.

 

   “I never said a word,” Greg replied with a wink.

 

   Charlie noticed a glint out of the corner of his eye.  He turned to face the old bookshelf and spotted an old wedding ring on a silver necklace.  He picked it up and regarded it closely.  It was old but still retained the shiny quality of pure gold.  There were a few scratches and grazes on it, reflecting the wearers’ hard labour over a number of years, but it was in good condition and seemed to have preserved its value.

 

   “Are you Julie Derbyshire’s son?”  He heard Joyce shout as she walked along the hallway.

 

   Charlie put the wedding ring in his pocket.

 

   “No,” he said loudly.  He turned and caught Greg looking at him.  Charlie shrugged almost imperceptibly.  Greg returned the gesture with a blank look and continued to tighten the tubing to the carpet cleaner.

 

   “Oh,” she said, walking into the living room.  “What a mess.  I do hope you will leave everything as you found it.”

 

   “We always leave a job exactly as we found it,” smirked Greg.  “Apart from the lovely, clean carpets of course.”

 

   “How would you like your tea?”  Joyce asked Charlie, ignoring Greg.  She was no longer wearing her pinny.  The tea towel was draped over her shoulder and she was holding an empty biscuit tin.

 

   “White, no sugar.  He takes it black with three sugars.”

 

   “Hmm,” said Joyce.  She seemed lost in her own privacy.  She stared at a point just to the left of Charlie and rubbed her hands anxiously together.

 

   “Oh sh…sod it,” said Greg.  “I’ve left the circuit breaker in the van.”

 

   “Are you anything to do with DorisHills… lives up Canterbury Way?”  Asked Joyce.

 

   Charlie shook his head.  Greg walked quietly out of the room leaving Charlie on his own with Joyce.  He shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot; Joyce merely continued to stare at the floor.

 

   “You, er…you look like you’ve been looking after yourself,” he said.

 

   “I was making some tea, wasn’t I?  How do you take it?”

 

   “White,” sighed Charlie, “no sugar.”

 

   “Of course.”

 

   Joyce shuffled out of the room, removing the tea towel from her shoulder as she went.

 

   Charlie looked back round at the bookshelf.  There was nothing of any particular value other than some books by Maeve Binchey, an old edition of the bible and a battered copy of ‘The Hobbit’ by J.R.R Tolkien.  From the kitchen came the sound of the kettle boiling once again.  Charlie shook his head and touched the spine of ‘the Hobbit’.  He picked up the book and opened it.  On the inside cover the previous owner had scrawled their name and their age in untidy hand-writing.  Charlie flicked through to the first page and read the first few lines; comforted by the sound of the boiling kettle and the ticking clock on the mantelpiece…

 

   “What are you doing with that?”  Shouted Joyce.  She was red in the face and glaring at Charlie from the hallway.  There were tears in her eyes.

 

    “Erm,” Charlie said, awkwardly.  “I was just having a quick read.”  He put the book back on the bookshelf.

 

   “That belongs to my boy!  That’s his book.  How dare you come in here and start rifling through my things.  His things.  My boy.  When he comes home he’s going to give you a hiding…”

 

   “Please,” interrupted Charlie.  “I wasn’t doing anything, I swear.  I was just reading a couple of lines… Greg is getting some stuff from the van, and…”

 

   Joyce was breathing fast.  She wiped a tear from her eye and stepped into the living room.  She looked like she was going to walk up to Charlie but stopped with one foot in front of the other and rocked slowly back and forth.

 

   “Please, just leave my house.  You’re frightening me and…”

 

   “What’s going on?”  Asked Greg as he walked in through the front door.

 

   “Nothing,” said Charlie, shortly.

 

   “Nothing?  He’s trying to steal my boy’s book,” yelled Joyce.

 

   “I wasn’t, I…”

 

   “I let you into my house, I make you tea and…and…and all the while you…”

 

   “Mum,” said Charlie, softly.

 

   Joyce stopped rocking on her feet and looked up into Charlie’s face.  Tears were streaming down her face and she her breathing was fast. 

 

   “Mum.”

 

   Joyce quickly glanced back at ‘the Hobbit’ lying at an angle on the bookshelf and then back into Charlie’s eyes.  He was breathing quickly.  He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out the wedding ring on the silver necklace.

 

   “1960. Dad bought it at Gordon Williams the Jewellers on London Road.  In 1985 he was showing it to Mr Andrews at work and dropped it into one of the engines.  He stopped the whole factory for two hours so he could dismantle the engine and find it.  You’ve told me that story a hundred times.”

 

   Joyce was still breathing quickly but she had stopped crying.  Her face wasn’t red anymore.  Her top teeth jutted out once again as she looked back and forth from the ring to Charlie’s face.  Behind her Greg shifted impatiently in the hallway.

 

   “When he had his stroke you massaged olive oil into his swollen fingers for two hours so you could get it off.”

 

   Charlie handed the wedding ring back to Joyce.  She pulled her face back into a normal shape and looked intently at the ring.

 

   “This book,” said Charlie, picking up ‘the Hobbit’, “you bought for my English O-Level.  Look at the inside cover – Charlie King, 14.  That’s me, mum.  You bought this book for me.”

 

   Joyce smiled and looked up into Charlie’s eyes.

 

   “It's not there anymore.   Gordon's Jewellers.  They knocked it down and built a car-park.”

 

   “Yes I know, mum,” Charlie smiled, putting the book back on the bookshelf.  “And look at the wedding picture.”  Charlie walked over to the mantelpiece and picked up the silver frame.  “Look how much I look like dad.”

 

   Joyce stared at the picture.  She reached out and gently stroked the glass.

 

   “Robert,” she whispered, taking the frame from Charlie’s unresisting grip.

 

   Charlie looked up over Joyce’s head and acknowledged Greg in the hallway.  Greg nodded, walked into the living room and plugged the circuit breaker into the plug socket.  Charlie bent his head down and kissed Joyce on top of her head.

 

   “Now, Mum.”

  

   “Yes, Charlie?”

  

   “Make me a cup of tea, please.”

 

   “Of course, sweetheart,” she said, walking up to the fireplace and placing the frame back on the mantelpiece.  She turned, straightened her blouse, and looked up at Charlie with a kind smile.  “How do you take it?”

 

Reviews

[K.S. McClure]

A very, very good story. I really enjoyed it.

~Kris~

[J. Swaney]

Excellent story. It was even a little suspenseful or perhaps it was simply the ghoul in me. A well spent few minutes.

JS